


the land of defeat

by heartofstanding



Series: The House That Oropher Built [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Heavy Angst, scenario that could be construed as suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-10-28 04:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17780738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: After the passing of long ages, Thranduil seeks the home of his people.





	the land of defeat

In the final hours of the sun's day, he raises his head. The last of the light pours into the cavern, turning the walls and roof golden. He looks down at his hands, bare and cold, and sees how they too are transformed, how they glow, almost translucent in the light of the sun's dying hours. He rolls onto his back, watches the light play across the roof, every dip in the rough stone caught and cast in shadow.

He breathes in the dusty air, watches the flickering light. Watches it grow and then fade, darkness steeping into the cavern, turning everything cold and dull, all colour gone, all light gone. He sighs, lets his head fall back onto the stone floor, the impact thudding through him and yet, and yet.

Cold seeps through him and he raises his hands, stares at them, how like glass they seem and how inadequate, how weak. He closes his eyes and then opens them to darkness.

The life has gone from this place.

How he has tried to deny the slow defeat, these wasting years. The song of the Sea is in his ears, the longing for a place he has never seen, never wanted. It is never-ending. He, given to the gloaming, has dwindled, living off the light of the stars, grown thin and weary, invisible to mortal eyes. They see him as but a faint light in the evening, when the sun has departed, though its light still yet lingers.

There is no future for him here, not anymore. Perhaps there never has been. He feels the taste of misery on his tongue at each morning's rising, awakening to the call of the Sea in his ears, growing ever-louder.

Tonight.

He shifts, goes down on hands and knees, and breathes in the dust of this last dwelling, his last kingdom. All he rules now is himself.

Outside, amid the woven trees, he lifts his head.

It has come at last, the bare and leafless day, the winter of his kind long-passed and how he has lingered, all these long years, all these ages crumbling in silence as he watched alone.

Once, there was dancing and mirth in the trees, love and tenderness and laughter going hand-in-hand even as they stood, ever-retreating, against the shadow. There is nothing now.

There are stars in this winter's sky. He smiles, something swift, involuntary, and his feet find the river, sees only a flicker of a light, a shadow, to tell of his presence. He thinks this defeat is beautiful and sweet, and follows the river down to the Sea.

He stands before the shore now, the Sea's waves crashing at his feet and the stars bright in the sky. It is time, he thinks, to seek the land of defeat. One last march. He closes his eyes, breathes in the salt. There are no ships that can bear him hence now, but his feet find the path still, leading him over the bent road. He steps forward, takes himself deep into the Sea. A voice inside him cries out, tells him that he is a fool, that it is too late, too late.

But home is before him, the path laid at his feet. 


End file.
